


Going Slow

by LaughterForChickens



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caregiver!Crowley, Diapers, Gen, Infantilism, Like 100 Years Slow, Little!Aziraphale, Non-Sexual Age Play, Slow Build, very very slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-14
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-10-18 02:42:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20631776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughterForChickens/pseuds/LaughterForChickens
Summary: Aziraphale reads something new in a book. He sets on to a new adventure, all at his own pace. Crowley tries to help, and just makes it worse.





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcschnuggles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcschnuggles/gifts).

Going Slow

Chapter One – 1926 – Discovery

Aziraphale prided himself on just how very many books he had read in his very long life here on Earth. Any author, any genre; all books deserved a chance to be read. He had a soft spot for Shakespeare (one should always support their friends), and his collection of incorrect bibles was re-read every July, with a fond eye roll to Crowley’s addition to _The Buggre All This Bible_.

Books were paper friends for Aziraphale. He knew what to expect from books, and books never asked for more from him than he knew how to give. Books were wonderfully, ineffably predictable. With the exception of very, very few, books never changed in between readings. He could go back again and again and always find the same comforting words in their same comforting order. Aziraphale did like comfort.

There was, however, one genre of books that did absolutely nothing for Aziraphale, that of the subject of human sexuality. Firstly, he wasn’t human. Secondly, he wasn’t a sexual being. Thirdly, he would find himself overwhelmed with second hand embarrassment. Humans, he found, constantly assumed that they were the very first people to discover sexuality. They seemed ignorant to the fact that sexuality in itself had led to their very being and their very being there. Like wise Solomon wrote: _what has been will be again,__ what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun. _

“Good old Shmuley,” murmured Aziraphale. “You knew what was really going on. Although, if I needed an expert on sex, I really should be thinking of your father.”

He was torn. There was a new (to him) book in his hands to be read, but it was a book on sexuality, sexual proclivities, and, while the thought alone made a blush threaten, fetishes. It was exactly the sort of book Aziraphale liked to avoid, but it was a new book and that was exactly the sort of book Aziraphale loved more than all. While he would usually avoid all books of this sort, it had been so very long since he had read a new book.

“Right. That’s settle then.”

Cocoa made, pillows fluffed, waistcoat unbuttoned in deference to the warm summer night, Aziraphale settled in. Surely it couldn’t be so bad, after all, he’d read most everything before in a different author’s voice. This book would have nothing that could shock him.

There was the usual preface of mechanics. There was a chapter on the various _loves that dare not speak their names, _and that once again sparked irritation at Alfred’s treatment of Oscar. “Humans never seem to learn quite how precious love truly is.” Turning the page revealed a chapter on the practice of bondage, and Aziraphale felt a stab of aggravation. Humans had the glorious gift of free will, something that angels have quite literally fallen for, and all for the name of some sex they throw the power of choice away.

Another sip of cocoa for fortification, and Aziraphale turned to the next chapter. The heading gave him pause. Apparently, there were some surprises left for him.

_Regression._

The innocent word made something deep inside Aziraphale give a little squirm, much to his own surprise. He set the cocoa down, and leant forward in his armchair. As he blushed through the chapter the squirming in his stomach only increased. Far from the embarrassing content of the previous chapter, this one was innocent, gentle, and affecting Aziraphale far more than he wanted to admit.

It didn’t have the same terror of resignation of power that the earlier writing did, but had just enough that Aziraphale could imagine not having to worry for even the briefest of time. Someone else would be in charge of his miracles, his job, his bookstore, and he would be free to read and be comfortable. The concept of not having to do anything, of being so, well, _lazy_, was delicious to an angel whose very beginning, currentness, and ending were predestined. For a brief time, he could simply _be_ and let the grown ups worry.

“Oh, dear me.” Aziraphale set the book down. If he, an ageless being of light, was supposed to be the young one, who on Earth was appropriate to be the _grown up_? For a terrible and hilarious moment his mind fluttered to Gabriel, but he quickly laughed the thought away.

Then an even more terrible thought popped up. The only other being with anything like Aziraphale’s age and familiarity was Crowley. The mere idea of the snake-eyed demon attempting to soothe and comfort a child, much less an angelic one, had Aziraphale snorting rather unangelically indeed. The thought also had Aziraphale’s eyes darting to the large mantle clock. The demon in question was due at any moment for their lunch date.

Standing up, it was the work of one miraculous moment to vanish his half-finished cocoa as he re-buttoned his waistcoat. The incriminating book was gathered up, and Aziraphale made his way to the locked back room where he kept his most treasured books. Normally he would leave any current reading out, but Crowley had the uncanny ability to spot exactly what you would rather him not, and a conversation on human sexuality was not appropriate lunch time banter.

And on the subject of Crowley:

“Hallo, Angel!”

The door crashed open, and was slammed shut as Crowley swaggered his way into the shop. “You’ll never guess what I’ve bought. It’s brilliant. It’s amazing. It’s… Hold on!”

Anxiously, Aziraphale turned to Crowley. His incriminating book was banished and vanished behind the closed door, but he still found it had to meet Crowley’s tinted lens covered eyes. “Yes, Crowley? What am I ‘holding on’ for?”

The demon grinned a grin that instantly had Aziraphale more on edge than before. “Well now! something’s got you all hot and bothered! What’s got you blushing like that, Mr. A. Ziraphale? Is the Angel up to something naughty?”

“Really, Crowley. You are impossible!”

Crowley ignored the reprimand, snaking his way around Aziraphale in a way that should have been impossible in his human form. The mischievous grin was firmly in place the whole time. “What were you up to, Aziraphale? What are you so red over?”

Time had taught Aziraphale that a Crowley with a question is worse than a dog with a bone. He would simply wear him down until Aziraphale couldn’t bear it, would confess, and then become so embarrassed that his only option would be avoiding the demon in question until he could contemplate being in the same room as him. The last time had taken over 150 years, and Aziraphale rather liked their little rhythm. He sighed. A half truth then, something to pacify Crowley without giving enough away that a name changed was in order. He was never good at it anyways, and he had runout of most variants of his name.

“If you really must know, Crowley, I was reading a rather racy book when you came in, and this corporeal form seems to be reacting in ways I can’t precisely control!”

Crowley cackled, rubbing his long and skinny hands together. “Aziraphale is reading erotica! My life can end now, this is as good as it gets! Which one was it?_ Ananga Ranga__? Les Bijoux Indiscrets? _Good old _120 Days of Sodom_? Can always trust the old Marquis to get you going.”

“Firstly, I am not at all surprised that for someone who claims never to read, you came up with those titles awfully quickly. Secondly, it was _Treatise on Cohabitation, _if you must know.” Aziraphale fought the urge to flick his eyes heavenwards as he breathed a prayer of forgiveness for lying. “By Maimonides.”

It wasn’t.

The smug look melted from Crowley’s face, rapidly replaced by a sneer. “Ugh, of all the perfectly good filth in the world you chose the most dull, boring, asinine filth there is. The man who wrote your filth wrote a _Treatise on Haemorrhoids_! How un-sexy can you get?” One of those bony fingers was leveled at Aziraphale’s nose. “I’m disappointed in you, Angel.”

With a whirl of jacket, Crowley turned to the door. “Anyways, come and _see_. I’m going to keep this forever!” He flourished out, and Aziraphale felt compelled to follow his demonic friend. The skinny bastard would only pout if he didn’t.

Parked outside the bookshop was a shiny, black car. “It’s a car.”

Crowley scowled. “It’s a _Bentley!_ And she’s _beautiful! _I’m in love and you’re ruining it!”

Aziraphale looked harder at the car, trying to decide what it was exactly that had Crowley so devoted. It was just a car. “Can you even drive, Crowley?”

“I got here didn’t I? Driving isn’t all that hard. I mean, humans can do it.”

“Only because they teach themselves to do it safely and correctly! You can’t just get into a car and… expect it into working.”

Crowley shrugged, then slithered his lengthy form into the driver’s seat. “Yeah, but that’s sort of exactly what I have done. And it’s worked. Get in angel, it’s lunch time, and a car like this deserves Kettner’s.”

Aziraphale hesitated. He certainly didn’t _trust_ Crowley, and putting the demon behind the wheel of what Aziraphale could only assume was a very fast car didn’t make him any more trustworthy. On the other hand, Aziraphale did love the menu at Kettner’s, and it did bring back lovely memories of afternoons with Auguste, trying new recipes.

He clambered into the passenger seat. “I assume you stole the car of course.”

“I’m wounded! Of course I paid for it! Of course, the poor chap thought she was only worth tuppence at the time. His employer is going to be _furious!” _laughing madly, Crowley slapped his hands on the wheel, as Aziraphale nervously watched the road that the demon seemed to be pointedly ignoring. “Tuppence, Angel! For a Bentley! Wahey!”

Crowley stepped on the gas peddle, and Aziraphale’s stomach hurtled to his shoes. “WOULD YOU SLOW DOWN?!”

The demon laughed, turning sharply around a corner. “This is how she’s meant to go, Aziraphale! Driving her any slower would be an insult to Walter Bentley! To Henry Ford! To Ferdinand Verbiest!”

“Dear Lord!” Aziraphale clenched his eyes shut. _Just go to your happy place, Aziraphale. Think happy thoughts!_

The word “regression” fluttered through his head. Desperate for comfort, Aziraphale focused on it. He ran the chapter over in his mind as the car continued to screech through SoHo. He contemplated which parts he was intrigued by and which terrified him. The concept of giving control over to a caregiver toed the line between both categories.

The car wrenched to a stop as Crowley slammed the brakes and started screaming obscenities at the poor pedestrian who had the misfortune of assuming it was safe to cross. Aziraphale kept his eyes closed, praying away any injury the man may have received. _Perhaps a nice blanket,_ he thought. _One just for holding._

He remembered a Selfridges window from the previous Christmas. It had been full of soft toys, pastel blankets, and rocking horses. _I don’t think I would like a rocking horse, _contemplated Aziraphale._ They look no more forgiving to your backside than their flesh and blood counter parts. _The car continued to careen wildly. _A soft toy, though. That could be lovely. Something to hold while I read. My caregiver would pick it for me; bring it home one evening after I close the shop up. A dear little bear, or a sweet little dolly. A friend for when I'm scared. I could call him Silky if he’s silky, or Fuzzy if he’s fuzzy._

“AZIRAPHALE! You read one bit of incredibly dull erotica, and now you’re busy fanaticizing in my new car! How could you?”

Aziraphale’s eyes shot open, and he found himself staring at a sharp-toothed, grinning demon. “Look at you! All red again! Only you could get hot under the collar from _Treatise on Cohabitation! _Anyways!”

Crowley threw the door open, and rose from the car like a cobra from a basket. Without a glance backwards, he was swaggering towards the restaurant. “Come along, Angel! Lunch awaits!”

Shaking himself free from fantasy, with the reassurance that his book awaited rereading in his shop, Aziraphale fought down his blush and rose from his own seat. Feelings like this deserved feeding, and these feelings tasted like Auguste’s eggs benedict.


	2. Indulgence

Going Slow

Chapter 2 – 1937 – Indulgence

It had been a very long year, reflected Aziraphale as he lowered himself into his armchair. A long year, and a long decade, and one that was only likely to get longer according to the economic reports that the angel kept himself well abreast of. Aziraphale hadn’t been this busy since humans had finally figured out penicillin. And thank The Almighty for that! Sneaking mouldy bread into people’s diets had been hard. But now? The amount out of hunger, pain, and desperation permeating the air made his lungs feel constantly squeezed. It was worse than the industrial revolution, when everything was hazed over by coal and cotton. This was oppressive on the spiritual level.

He knew what he had scheduled for the night, but guilt was tingling at the edge of his consciousness. What made him think he deserved a night off? All those poor people around the world without work didn’t get to have an evening off.

Aziraphale made the decision to refuse to let it in. He has been so very busy, and he was so very tired. Surely one evening of indulgence, after years of planning couldn’t hurt anyone. God’s in her heaven, and all’s right with the world, and all. Or at least, not right, but not going to get any worse from Azirapahle having just one moment to rest.

Rising from his chair he side-tracked into the shop’s toilet. He washed his hands impeccably before he started his night. The last 11 years had had their share of experimentation, and Aziraphale was quite sure that he did _not_ like the taste of the day’s work on his hands. Following his hand washing, he moved upstairs to his flat, taking time to lock the shop and turn the lights off beforehand.

Upstairs, his bedroom was less _bed-_room, and more room with a bed. Books spilled off shelves onto every surface. They were stacked shoulder high in the corners, and knee high everywhere else. His end tables were near groaning with their burden in their positions beside the bed on either side. There was a bed, of course. Crowley had extolled the virtue of sleeping enough that Aziraphale had long since given in to the urge to buy one.

He started his planned evening of relaxation by moving all the books that had found a resting place on his mattress, taking a moment to miracle the bedding fresh and clean. He was careful in his placement of his tomes, borderline stalling as he puttered about. The guilt was still hanging about. He shouldn’t be inside his home, he should be out multiplying loaves and fishes, healing the sick, or even just serving in a Salvation Army soup kitchen.

The angel paused in the centre of his room. It was as spotless as it would ever get. Only one book remained on the far pillow, and that one belonged there. There was nothing left to stall with. There was only one thing left to do. He sighed. “For goodness sakes, Aziraphale. Who knows when we’ll allow ourselves another night off! It could quite literally be now or never!”

Mind made up, he went back to his bed, knelt down, and pulled the small carpet bag out from underneath. He took a deep, unnecessary and purely for effect, breath before he opened it. His most treasured possession stared back. The nightshirt was the most indulgent thing he owned. It was long, and warm, crafted out of a tan and burgundy tartan flannel. He had bought it from Selfridge’s nearly five years previous, and could count on one hand the number of times he worn it. He loved it.

There was another piece of garment, of sorts, in there, alongside a glass bottle with an amber, rubber nipple, but Aziraphale refused to think about that one. In fact, he had never tried it on even though he wanted to very much. He had practiced folding it hundreds of times; knew exactly how hard to press to make the pins slide through the terry towelling. He eyed it for a second before deciding that tonight still wasn’t the night he felt brave enough. _Someday, but not today. _

Setting the carpet bag back on the ground, Aziraphale held the buttery soft flannel nightshirt to his face. He had found, in his many centuries in this corporation, that the most sensitive part of this body was the soft skin under his nose, and of his upper lip. On the rare time he allowed himself to engage in this particular… hobby, he often found himself rubbing anything soft against that small triangle patch.

_Regression. _The word danced in his mind. It taunted him and tempted him.

Blue eyes closed, nose still buried in the flannel of his nightshirt, Aziraphale took another deep inhale. His pyjamas always smelt the same, just the slightest touch of talcum mingled with the smell of the milky tea he liked to drink during these nights. With a thought, and a flourish, the nightshirt was on. He briefly contemplated just using a small miracle to summon his tea, but the mere idea of Gabriel getting wind of what he used his powers for was enough to have Aziraphale popping his feet into his slippers, fetching the last item from his kit, and nudging the carpet bag back under the bed with his heel, before padding down the hall to his disused kitchen.

Kettle on the hob. Fire started underneath. Teapot down, rinsed, and warmed. Tealeaves added to the teapot (one per cup, and one for the pot). There goes the whistle of the boiling water. Pour.

The rhythm and routine of making the tea were as much a part of his evening’s plan as the handwashing had been. As his tea steeped Aziraphale set to rinsing the bottle he had taken from his carpet bag. The same anxiety that kept him from summoning his evening bottle with his power was what kept him from willing the bottle clean as he had his bed.

Steeped and ready, the tea was poured into the glass. He added copious milk, a splash vanilla, and just a cheeky touch of honey. The rubber nipple, freshly boiled to sterilization, was stretched into place. Without even bothering to check the temperature (It was always perfect, simply because it was expected to be) Aziraphale popped the nipple into his mouth. He nursed slowly as he shuffled back to his room, one hand holding his bottle in the right position, the other worrying the hem of his nightshirt between his pudgy fingers.

The stress of the day (week, year, decade) was melting away as Aziraphale nursed his tea down. Slippers kicked off, and carefully placed at his bedside, the blonde slid into his bed, settling back against his pillows. He did love pillows. Pillows and blankets and anything soft. He bed was less _bed_ at this point, and more _nest._

Fully settled, Aziraphale pulled the book he'd left on the bed earlier closer. It was heavy in a reassuring way. The pale blue cover was familiar and comforting. Alan’s signature on the title page was as crisp as ever.

_A.Z. Fell_

_The original Piglet._

_Thank you for buying Growler for C.R. all those years ago. Who knows what would have happened otherwise?_

_A.A. Milne_

An extra pillow was employed as a book prop, and Aziraphale began to read words long memorized. “_Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin.” _He only half focused on what he was reading, mind growing fuzzy at the edges in a way it only could when he allowed himself one of these nights.

The book, however unfocused his reading might be, was an integral as anything else in his ritual. Wash hands, change clothes, drink tea, then read. He had done it this way every time. _Winnie The Pooh_ predated even his beloved nightshirt. It had, in fact, been the first childlike thing he had acquired after that fateful day reading in his shop; the day he first entertained the thought of _Regression_. Every time Aziraphale wanted to regress, he needed at least a few minutes with Pooh, and Piglet, and Eeyore, and the rest.

As Pooh sailed with the honey bees, the angel sucked at his warm tea. By the time Christopher Robin had to shoot Pooh down the tea was done, and Aziraphale set the bottle onto a book stack on his end table. Tomorrow, when he felt more grown, and his mind was clearer, he would clean it thoroughly before stowing it away in his carpet bag. Tonight, he felt too small, and too unbothered. Washing dishes was a boring grown up job, and he didn’t want to be boring and grown up right now.

He shuffled further against his pillow. Last step. Aziraphale raised his thumb to his lips, letting the digit slide into his mouth, pad up. He had first attempted this back in ’28, after seeing a darling set of twins, each sucking the opposite thumb; one the left, and one the right. Just like it had years ago, it gave the instant and overwhelming sensation of _right. _The skin of his thumb (always the right thumb, never the left) was soft against his tongue, the carefully manicured nail inoffensive.

His fingers curled, index finger hooking over his nose. The weight of this finger on the bridge of his nose, right where his pince-nez liked to _pincer_ his_ nez,_ was reassuring and calming beyond anything else he'd tried. His middle finger rubbed lazily against the tip of his nose, soothingly passing over that sensitive little patch.

Sleepiness was tugging at him, even as Aziraphale struggled to reach the end of the chapter. He knew, of course, that Christopher Robin would pop the balloon, and that Pooh would be alright, but as Christopher Robin said, and indeed would say forever on the very next page, “’_I do remember, he said, ‘only Pooh doesn’t very well, so that’s why he likes having it told to him again. Because then it’s a real story and not just a remembering.’” _Aziraphale did so very much love stories, and they were so much better that just rememberings. Soon enough indeed, Christopher Robin was heading to his bath and Edward bear was bump, bump, bumping up the stairs.

Aziraphale put the book back on the pillow beside his own, wriggling himself down into the duvets until he was laying flat, thumb still in place. His free hand wrapped itself in the loose sleeve of his nightshirt, soon fighting the fingers of his other hand as it came to find its place under his nose, rubbing warm flannel against the skin of his upper lip. _Perhaps a bear, _he thought. _I could like a bear. Although I would never pull him on his head. I would be gentle with him and he would be my friend. _Aziraphale yawned._ I could call him Brownie if he was brown._

Smiling at his own little joke, Aziraphale closed his eyes. A bear, he decided, would make nights like this far less lonely. He would obviously like to share the experience with another person, but a decade of pondering hadn’t revealed any possibilities for a caretaker.

Aziraphale didn’t like loneliness. Earth could be awfully lonely. Heaven was never like this. Back in Heaven there was always great company of the heavenly host appearing with the angel, praising God and saying, “Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace to those on whom his favour rests.” Or something like that. Lots of singing anyways. On earth Aziraphale could go whole weeks without having a meaningful conversation with anyone if heaven didn’t send him any work, and no one came into the shop. Sometimes he even found himself longing for one of Crowley’s visits, even if the demon was always up to something, just to feel like someone wanted him around.

With a shaky breath, the angel rolled onto his side. Allowing himself a moment of regression always seemed to bring all those nasty emotions bubbling right up to the surface. Against his will, tears were prickling behind his eyelids. “This would never happen if I had a bear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun (but not really) fact: I have a copy of the complete Winnie the Pooh and the cover is, in fact, blue. I also re-read it every 6 months or so and have it nearly memorized.


	3. Purge

Going Slow

Chapter 3 – 1969 – Purge

It had been two years, _two years,_ since Aziraphale had last seen Crowley. Two years since he had sat in that ridiculous Bentley and handed certain death over to a man he thought was his friend. Two years in which the angel had seen neither hide nor very red hair of the demon. He hadn’t particularly thought of him either. When one is immortal, time is a very different construct. While two years seemed an eternity now, it had seemed fairly within the norm before, and then yesterday the unthinkable happened. Yesterday Heaven sent the message that the demon Crowley was dead.

Aziraphale had been crying on and off all day. _Isn’t this ridiculous, _he mused. _An angel of the Almighty crying over a demon from Hell. _But Crowley had long since become something more than just a demon to Aziraphale. Crowley was one of his few friends. If the angel was perfectly honest with himself, Crowley was both his best, and only, friend.

Millennia spent with mortals had worn heavily on Aziraphale’s soul. You grow to love someone and consider them a friend, and just when you start to really open up to them, they go ahead and die of old age. Of course, there was the other problem to that; humans grow suspicious when they age and you don’t. Half of his name changes had come from necessity; people would grow suspicious and he would have to move on. Aziraphale hated moving. It had taken special dispensation from Heaven for him to create his perfect little bookstore in SoHo. Nobody thought it was odd that the owner never aged because everyone who came in would quite intentionally forget about the bumbling, blonde, bookseller as soon as they left.

The longer he was on earth the lonelier Aziraphale felt. Of course, he could return to Heaven, except for the small problem that he didn’t actually like it there. He had grown so used to the smog and haze of London that the bright, clean light of Heaven hurt his eyes. Heaven didn’t allow you the little comforts of earth. Heaven wouldn’t allow his books, or his cocoa, or his favourite records. Heaven wouldn’t have allowed his nightshirt; and it certainly would not allow his habit of regression for comfort.

_Regression. _Guilt, and shame, and anxiety bubbled in his stomach like boiling ice. Two years ago he had handed his friend a thermos of death, and gone merrily on his way. He had climbed into his bed that night with no thoughts to Crowley. Had the demon committed suicide by holy water? Had it been an accident? Perhaps Crowley had been as careless with the dangerous material as he was with his car. Had it been that very night? Aziraphale would never know, having given up the opportunity to make sure his friend was safe. Instead he had swaddled himself in his flannel nightshirt, and his nappy, and ignored the whispering voice at the back of his head telling him that he had made a mistake.

Now two years later he was crippled with regret. Aziraphale had woke up yesterday (he indulged most weekends now) to a tiny card on his end table. To his embarrassment, before he even read the note, the angel panicked over just how it had arrived in his room. Only once he recognized the sender as Benaniah did he calm enough to read it. Benaniah was too disinterested in Earth to ever actually visit. Aziraphale knew his brother enough to know that he would have simply sent the message down via absent-minded miracle.

In a distinguished, yet vaguely celebratory tone, the note stated the passing of the demon Crowley. No emotion; merely informing Aziraphale that he would no longer have to worry about the ‘vile adversary’. How was Benaniah to know that he had sent Aziraphale the most gut-wrenching note of all? Dead, not just discorporated. There was only one answer in Aziraphale’s mind as to what had killed his friend, and the answer was Aziraphale himself.

A day of grief had convinced Aziraphale of one thing: if he hadn’t been so eager to get home and regress, he would have spent the time with Crowley to keep his friend safe. He would have fully impressed into his friend’s thick skull just how dangerous the holy water was. Crowley would be alive, it was all Aziraphale’s fault, and regression was to blame.

Now he was standing in front his his trunk, wiping tears from his eyes with a rough cotton handkerchief. He didn’t deserve the silk ones today, perhaps never again. He had come to the one solution of absolution. Regression had inadvertently caused the death of his dearest friend. Aziraphale didn’t deserved the comfort any more. He never had. Everything had to go.

He cast the smallest of miracles to unlock his steamer trunk; his collection had long since outgrown his old carpet bag. He took a moment to look at his belongings. In happier moods he had equated it to a pirate’s treasure chest, or a dragon’s hoard. Today it was a curse.

He pulled his feeding bottles out first. He had four now. His first one was missing the nipple and had been for some time, the stretch-over style had fazed out shortly after the war. The ring-sealed style had taken their place, and replacement nipples for the former were impossible to find. Nonetheless, Aziraphale had never been able to make himself get rid of his first bottle, even years after he ripped that last nipple. It still smelled like tea. He had two other glass bottles, and they were his favourites now. He stored them carefully, their amber nipples turned inwards to protect from dust, sealed with their little white plastic rings, covered with a white plastic cap. He set the three of his priceless bottles on his bed. It would hurt to let them go. Even when he wasn’t regressed Aziraphale liked to drink from them, as they protected his books from spills. He trailed his fingers over them gently and lovingly, and in a blink, they were gone, along with the plastic-bodied one that had remained in the trunk. He had bought it the month before and never really liked it. It had felt, smelled, and tasted wrong. Gone. Into the ether.

He waved his hand over the open trunk, and his collection of nappies vanished too. It had taken him so long to feel brave enough to even pin one on, but he had loved them; loved the way they felt. He had dedicated a good portion of the 1950’s to experimentation with fabrics. Terry, flannel, Birdseye, gauze, and any combination he could think of. He loved the way the nappy would feel secure around his hips, and tight around his waist. He liked the rustle of the rubber pants, the reassuring sensation that even though he didn’t actually _use_ the nappies, if he ever _did _try it, everything would be contained. All gone. Along with with the bar of sweet-smelling soap that he kept his nappy pins stuck into, and the dear little tin of talcum powder. Banished. He didn’t deserve their comfort.

The collection of books was simply relocated downstairs in his back room. Aziraphale had never, and would never, damage a book in any way. The world deserved books. Banishing even one book would be a crime, or at least a sin, that the angel would simply never allow himself to do.

The only thing in the trunk was Aziraphale’s beloved nightshirt. Years had only softened the flannel even more. A wave of nausea climbed up the angel’s throat as he lifted the precious garment from the bottom of the trunk, and up to his face. It smelled the way it always did. It smelled perfect. He rubbed his lips against it. Everything else was replaceable, his nightshirt never could be. He was only too grateful that he had never indulged in a soft toy; no wrinkly elephants named Wrinkles, or velveteen rabbits named Velvet.

Deep in his flat a phone was ringing. Aziraphale was torn between finishing his job, and answering the call. Finally, he made the decision to spare his pyjamas for just one moment more, and stalked into the private living room he maintained above the bookstore. He snagged the phone off the cradle mounted to his wall.

“Hello? This is Aziraphale speaking.”

Crackly static answered, and it took Aziraphale a moment to realize there was a voice shouting through it.

“Hallo? HALLO? Angel can you hear me? IT’S CROWLEY!”

Aziraphale’s heart stopped beating, and he stopped breathing. Technically speaking, both functions were totally unnecessary for the angel anyways. “Crowley? Is that really you?”

There was an answer, but Aziraphale didn’t hear it. Crowley was on the phone. If Crowley was on the phone then there was no way he could be dead. The relief was crashing over him in waves. There was something loud happening around him, and with a jolt of surprise Aziraphale realized that it was the sound of his own sobbing.

“_Crowley! _You’re okay. You’re okay. They said you were dead. I thought you were gone!” He used all the miracle he could summon to make the phone line crystal clear. He needed to hear that snide, smarmy voice.

“Yeah, yeah its me. I promise. I know what Heaven’s saying, but Angel you gotta listen to me, I’m okay. I swear to you I am not dead. Not even discorporated. I just needed to hide out a little. Got the guys downstairs angry and I needed to pull a big one. I’ll be home soon.”

“_You’re okay!” _Later on, Aziraphale would be embarrassed by his carrying on, but he couldn’t care right now. He wasn’t alone on this planet after all. He wouldn't be so very, very lonely.

The phone was silent for a moment, and Aziraphale panicked that he'd lost Crowley once more. When the demon spoke again his voice was softer than the angel had ever heard it. “I’m okay, Aziraphale. I’m okay.”

“I was so scared, Crowley. I don’t want to be alone on earth.”

“I know. I know, Angel. Now listen, I need you to do a huge favour for me. Can you do that?”

Sniffing away the last of his snot and tears, Aziraphale found himself nodding unnecessarily. “Yes! Yes of course I can! I’m an angel, its what we do.”

There was a laugh down the line. “I know. Its what I phoned you. No once else could do this for me. It’s the most important thing. I can only trust you.”

Guilt returned full force. Aziraphale staggered under the weight of it, leaning heavily against the wall. His crying started up again. “No Crowley, you can’t. I don’t deserve your trust. I could have killed you! I gave you holy water! I was so sure that that was how you died. That blasted holy water! No, Crowley, you can’t trust me with anything!”

Laughter crackled through the phone. “Oh, Aziraphale! You ridiculous being! That holy water is locked in a safe. Against all my better judgement, I _can_ trust you! Now listen, Ridiculous, I need you to follow these instructions explicitly. Can you do that?”

“Yes, yes I’m listening.”

“I need you to go to my flat and take care of my plants. They need misting every day. They’re terrible slackers so I’m hoping that you being there might encourage the bastards to grown better. I shall never forgive you if one dies.”

“That’s it? Just care for your plants?”

“I have my plants, and I have you. Those are my only things. Mist the plants, Angel.”

There was something warming Aziraphale’s heart. He was Crowley’s. Crowley was trusting his only other thing to Aziraphale. In the demon’s own, non-communicative, way, he had revealed that Aziraphale was as important to him as the demon was to the angel.

“Yes, Crowley. I’ll mist your plants.”

“Thanks.”

“Its not a problem, really.” Aziraphale suddenly remembered the destruction of decades worth of collection. I would take a literal miracle to bring everything back. “Oh, and Crowley?”

“Mmmyeah?”

“You couldn’t have phoned twenty minutes ago?”

“What?”

“Never mind, dear boy. Never mind.”

Two weeks later, the newspapers were reporting on something called “Woodstock” in the United States. The younger generation seemed enthralled by the event; they saw the glamour of the bands, the free love, the free everything. Those with more sense saw the filth, the pollution, the destruction of nature left behind on the farm, and the effects of drugs on those people in the muddy fields. Aziraphale, reading the paper as he misted a, really rather impressive, forest of houseplants, saw a familiar face, familiar dark lenses, and a familiar smug smirk. He was almost proud of Crowley for this one. He would never admit it though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woodstock was Hell on Earth. Had to have been Crowley.


	4. Fight

Going Slow

Chapter 4 – 1991 – Fight

Aziraphale was having, as a beloved book eloquently put it, a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. The weather had been terrible. His tea was over-steeped and tasted horrible. Some no-good customer had come in and insisted on buying a book no matter how much Aziraphale had attempted to dissuade him. All in all, the angel was in a very bad mood, and he had only one thing on his mind: _Regression._

After 65 years Aziraphale was quite comfortable with his hobby, and his habits, but today’s session had been tinged with a shading of guilt as he got ready. He had cancelled his lunch plans with Crowley for this. He had been looking forward to the trip out, really, he had, but he _needed _this in a way that he needed nothing else. _Bar Italia _would still be there tomorrow, and the Polledri’s were always accommodating when it came to switching reservations.

Crowley had been less accommodating of the change when the angel phoned. Despite Aziraphale attempting to explain his reasoning, the demon had been petulant and grumpy, eventually slamming the phone down and ending the call abruptly. It was in reminding himself of Crowley’s behaviour that Aziraphale found the peace of mind to continue with his plans, and so he had.

Now, thickly and freshly nappied, dressed in his nightshirt, and cuddled into his duvets, Aziraphale was sucking at his most recent bottle of tea and refusing to give in to the demon’s manipulations. Cancelling one lunch in almost 1,500 years of their _arrangement _should certainly be forgivable. _Although,_ pondered Aziraphale,_ Linguine All’Astice would be lovely right now_. Bottle finished, he crammed his thumb into his mouth and forced himself not to feel regretful.

Without warning, a shadow suddenly loomed across the angel’s bed. Aziraphale found himself less terrified by the monstrous ten metre snake that had appeared in his bedroom then he was of the knowledge that the red-belly in question had likely been watching him for quite a while. He sat up sharply, clutching his covers to his chest. “Crowley! What on Earth are you doing in here?!”

Scales receded as sharp angles appeared. As the demon reformed as a man in the angel’s bedroom, there was something fang like in his smile. “Well, well, well. What do we have here? A little angel all tucked up in bed?”

“Crowley, I’m warning you.” In one miraculous moment, Aziraphale banished his incriminating outfit and accessories into his steamer trunk, dressed in his standard outfit once more, and was standing beside his bed. “I don’t want to hear one hiss out of you. I’ve never once judged you, and I remember your moustache phase.”

“Not one word, hmm? What about threes words?”

“Demon-“ Aziraphale stepped forward, and raised a finger to Crowley’s face. He could feel himself blushing furiously, and focused intently on not letting his hand shake. His next words, which he hadn’t really planned, were interrupted.

“Let me help.”

“I’m sorry?” Derailed, thoroughly derailed.

“Don’t be sorry, just let me help. I’ve been watching you all afternoon, you know. All of it.”

Aziraphale felt his blush turn thermonuclear. “Everything?” His chin quivered and he hated himself for it.

Crowley was suddenly crowded into his space. The height difference in their corporations was noticeable in a way Aziraphale had never expected. “Everything, little boy. And what a very soggy little boy you were.”

His body reacted before his mind did, and Aziraphale was quickly on the other side of the room, bed between them. “Forget it Crowley. Forget everything you’ve seen. And, and, and, and… just leave and forget it.”

Crowley slithered around the bed, hips swaying, smirk in place. “No, I don’t think so. I think I’d like to stay and help. Little boys shouldn’t be left alone.”

There was something pooling in Aziraphale’s stomach. With something akin to horror, he realised it was _wanting_. He didn’t want to be alone every time. He wanted someone to take care of him, and make him his tea, and read him his books. “This doesn’t, well, bother you?”

“Aziraphale, I’m a demon. _The _Demon. The original tempter. I’ve seen everything. Do you really think this is the first time I’ve seen this particular perversion?”

Shame ran through Aziraphale’s veins. _“Please_ don’t call it that. It’s not a perversion. I’m not hurting anyone, and it’s not a sexual act. It’s just, well, I suppose it’s my hobby.”

“Hobby then. And it’s hardly the first time I’ve seen it be non-sexual either. How long have you been at this?”

“When did you buy your car?”

“1926.”

“Since then.”

“Fuck me. I can’t imagine how many wet nappies you’ve had in sixty-five years.”

Aziraphale looked away. “Fifty-seven.”

“Fifty-seven years of nappies? Took your own sweet time with it, huh?”

“Fifty-seven nappies in two years, if you must know. It took me a while to be brave enough to... try it.”

“Right. Never did like doing things quick, did you? Now!” Crowley clapped his hands together and rubbed them vigorously. “Open up this trunk of yours and let me see your kit.”

“If you’ve really been watching all night, then you’ve already seen it.”

“I don’t mean your clothes; I mean everything else.” The demon was rolling his snake-like eyes. “Show me your toys, and your teddies, and all those lovely things.”

Aziraphale shuffled his feet before moving over to his steamer, and opening its lid. “I don’t have any of those things. Just some bottles, and some nappies. And my nightshirt. And some books of course.”

He looked hopefully up at the demon. “I have a lot of books. If you want to read one?”

Crowley was staring into the chest with an unreadable expression. “Well! This won’t do.” He snapped his fingers, and Aziraphale felt the cool tingle of a miracle running over his skin. “We’re going out. Daddy’s going to get you some toys.”

Fury roared up in Aziraphale as he looked at himself. His suit had been replaced with red, cotton shorts, and a striped blue top. “Crowley what have you done? Where are my clothes? And I’m not even going to touch on calling you _daddy!”_

“Daddy has just put you in some more appropriate clothes before we go out.”

“I’m not going to call you daddy, Crowley, and I refuse to be seen in this! I have a reputable business to think of!”

“Oh, calm down. Nobody else will see anything awry. This is all for you, little boy.”

Aziraphale glanced in his bedroom mirror, and his reflection did, in fact, show his preferred outfit. It also showed his vibrantly red blush. “I don’t trust you. Why should I believe you?”

“Such a smart boy, not trusting the big, bad demon. However, in this case, I give you my solemn word that no one but you or I can see your outfit.”

Crowley seemed so sincere, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but feel guilty. The demon was obviously trying, and here he was being a stubborn beast about it all. He gave a rough swallow. “Alright then. But I still won’t call you daddy.”

“You will eventually.” Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand, and the warmth and that bloomed from that small action was enough to make the angel feel much braver than before. “Come along little boy. We’re going shopping.”

Flushing furiously as they went, Aziraphale found himself being hauled along, down the streets of London, to the nearest Mothercare. True to his word, Crowley had obviously made sure no one was aware of Aziraphale’s clothing. The angel, however, was all too aware of his bare calves and the way the jersey cotton shirt was stretched over his tummy. He had a sneaking suspicion that Crowley had put him in some kind of nappy too, only it didn’t feel anything like his nappies at home. The warm grip of Crowley’s hand around his was the only thing giving him courage.

In the shop, Crowley was quick to grab a trolley and begin navigating the aisles. Aziraphale was overwhelmed by the rows and rows of shining packages. Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand to better push the trolley, and the angel felt his anxiety spiking as they moved deeper into the store.

“We’ll need nappies for you. I have no desire to mess with those fiddly pins and rubber panties.”

“Stop it, Crowley!” hissed Aziraphale. “Someone might hear you. And besides all that, I happen to like my nappies.”

“I don’t.”

Crowley pushed them deeper. He threw plastic wrapped packages of Pampers into the trolley, alongside powders and creams. The next aisle introduced babygrows in every colour. Aziraphale balked as his demon piled multiple all-in-one outfits in. “I don’t need those, Crowley. I have my nightshirt.”

“Those went out with steam power, Angel, and yours is particularly offensive. Don’t worry, I’ll make these fit.”

“That’s not what’s bothering me Crowley.”

“Come along, Aziraphale.”

By the time they reached the aisle full of bedding, Aziraphale felt near tears. He was terrified that someone would see through Crowley’s miracle and see his infantile outfit. He was terrified that someone would look in their trolley and somehow know that everything in there was for _him_. He was terrified that Crowley was doing this to hurt him in some as-of-yet unplanned way. Aziraphale was done, entirely done, and Crowley wasn’t listening.

As the demon wandered down the aisle, away from Aziraphale, the angel stopped still. He hadn’t felt so overwhelmed since the collapse of Babel. He backed against the shelving, heart racing. His fingered brushed against something impossibly soft. Turning, Aziraphale saw the source. It was a perfectly cuddly and soft, cream coloured blanket. Both hands closed around it, and he drew it to his face. He pressed in closer, desperately trying to find reasons to calm down. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Crowley said he wanted to get him a soft toy. Maybe a kitten named Whiskers, or a puppy named Paws.

“Daddy didn’t say you could wander off, did he?”

Aziraphale whirled around. “Crowley! Someone will hear you! I don’t want to be here anymore. I want to go home. _Please, Crowley.”_

“We can’t go home yet, Angel. We need to get you a soft toy. Don’t you want that?”

Tears sprung up from nowhere. “I _don’t. _I just want to go home. I don’t like this, Crowley. This isn’t what I wanted.”

A cloud seemed to pass over Crowley’s features. “I’m doing this for you, Aziraphale. I didn’t think angels were capable of being ungrateful.”

“I’m, I’m not trying to be ungrateful. I just…” a sob erupted from Aziraphale. “_I hate this!”_

With a silent snap, Aziraphale left the shop, reappearing in the living room of his own little flat above the bookshop. He began ripping off the clothes Crowley had put him in. The stripy shirt was thrown to the ground, and he shucked his shorts down to meet them. Stripping revealed a plasticky, disposable nappy, complete with a shiny strip of teddy bear tape across the belly.

Before he could deal with the nappy, an unnecessary crack announced Crowley’s arrival. The demon loomed over the angel in the crowded room. “Little boy,” he hissed. “You _do not_ run away from Daddy like that!”

The final line was crossed, and Aziraphale felt a heavenly rage erupt out of himself. “STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT! I DON’T WANT YOU HERE! I DON’T WANT ANY OF THIS! AND YOU! AREN’T! LISTENING!”

The last three words were punctuated with Aziraphale jabbing his finger into Crowley’s chest. The lights flickered throughout the flat. Crowley took a step back. “Aziraphale, Angel. I’m sorry. I just... Thought this was how it went; what you wanted. I was doing my best. “

“You weren’t doing anything! You never asked me anything! You just showed up, and took over, and you did it all wrong.”

The demon’s own irritation was clearly growing. “I was trying to do something nice, if you’d just remember.”

“NO! You did it _wrong._ I _like_ my cloth nappies, and I _like_ my books, and I _like_ my nightshirt, and right now I DON’T LIKE YOU!”

Aziraphale shouted the last sentence, and the lightbulbs in the room exploded. Crowley stepped back. “I did my best, okay? You ever think about that?” Soon, the demon was shouting back. “IT’S NOT LIKE YOU SAID ANYTHING!”

“I DID! And I didn’t _ask_ you to take over! I just wanted an evening in. None of this had to happen. I just want…” Aziraphale took a shuddery breath before letting out another quiet sob. “I just want to go to bed now.”

Blue eyes met yellow, and Aziraphale’s chin quivered. “_Please go,_ _Crowley._ Please. Just forget all of this and go.”

Crowley nodded, taking a step back, and vanishing again with a loud pop. Aziraphale banished the clothes, and the disposable nappy, with a gesture, replacing them with his familiar and comforting nightshirt and thick, cloth nappy. His breathing was shuddering and gasping as he wobbled into his bedroom.

When he entered the room, his bedspread had something on it. A folded blanket was placed gently across the foot of the bed. Aziraphale recognized it instantly as the cream blanket he had been cuddling in Mothercare. There was a short note propped on top.

_I am sorry._

_-C_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My biggest pet peeve in agere stories is no communication. "I don't want to do blank," says the regresser. "Just trust me," says the caretaker. All nerves magically gone. That's just not realistic enough! Relationships take communication, and the lack of that just leads to a mess.
> 
> Tra-la, rant over now!


	5. Storm

Going Slow

Chapter 5 – 2019 – Storm

The summer had ended, not (and Aziraphale couldn’t be more grateful for this) with a bang, but with a whimper. He had kept in cautious touch with Adam and The Them; forewarned is, after all, forearmed. However, it seemed as if Adam well and truly was human. The world had returned to normal, and the angel had returned to SoHo.

Crowley had been suspiciously absent from his life, and Aziraphale was trying desperately not to take it personally. He was also trying rather desperately not to be worried about Crowley. Averting the apocalypse had been a traumatic event, and the demon did tend to deal with emotions with avoidance. Aziraphale, for his part, had been dealing with the trauma with multiple regression sessions.

_Regression_. It was always comforting, but now it was almost necessary. The last month has seen Aziraphale having time regressed almost every night. Tonight, he knew, would see him having another evening in.

The start of autumn had been heralded by the start of abysmal weather, and tonight was the worst yet. There was lightning forking across the sky, and booms of thunder chasing it. Everything was far too similar to the narrowly averted end of the world, and Aziraphale had been watching the incoming storm with ramping anxiety.

Just before closing time, the door to the bookshop opened with a jingle of bells. “We’re closing soon!” shouted the angel over his shoulder, busy rehoming books. “Is there something in particular I can help you with?”

“Yeah.”

The voice was familiar in a way that Aziraphale’s own shadow was. He turned to the newcomer. “Crowley!”

“Hallo, Angel. Have you missed me?”

Aziraphale was quick to move to his demon, ignoring all sense of formality, and wrapping his arms around Crowley’s scrawny form. He pressed his face firmly into the bony chest in front of him. “Of course I have! One can’t just defeat the antichrist with someone and not became deepest friends with them.”

To his surprise, Crowley hugged him back. Feeling braver, Aziraphale threw in a little light admonishment. “A phone call here and there wouldn’t have gone awry you know. I believe I have earned that.”

There was another crash of thunder, and even as Aziraphale jumped and tightened his grip on Crowley, the demon hugged tighter in return. “Fucking storm!” The demon glowered out the window. “You could stop anytime you want to!” The wind outside paid no attention to his bellows.

“Don’t know about you, Angel, but ever since August I rather hate this weather.”

Aziraphale just nodded. Having the demon’s arms around him felt so very good. Finally, he moved back. “You said you needed help with something?”

He could feel the tension immediately run through Crowley. The demon turned his face away from Aziraphale and coughed mildly. “A bit, yeah.”

Crowley shifted his weight from foot to foot, and looked almost, not quite, but almost, embarrassed. “Could we close up here? Go up to your flat? I’m offering to,” here the demon’s face screwed up liked he’d tasted battery acid, “_talk about my feelings.”_ It came out in a particularly snake-like hiss, and Aziraphale took pity on his friend.

“Yes, alright.” A wave of his hand had the doors locked and lights off. A second gesture had his arm graciously bowing towards the door that hid the stairs to his flat. “After you, dear boy.”

The demon slid past him to the stairs. He gave Aziraphale a peculiar look. “Yeah, ‘bout that…”

The storm continued to rage outside, and Aziraphale channeled his anxiety into to soothing routine of making tea. After all these decades, he knew how Crowley liked his tea, and he put on a small pot of zhū chá alongside his pot of camomile. Truthfully, he rather thought the demon drank it for its English name rather than its taste.

A violent burst of thunder shuddered through the flat, chasing after a streak of lightning that temporarily browned out the electricity. The noise made Aziraphale jolt, dropping, and breaking, his favourite teacup (featuring daffodils). He looked at the porcelain shards with a pout. “Drat.”

Before he could move in to clean up, a hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Careful, little boy. Let me help.”

Time froze. The daffodil teacup reformed and cheerily hopped up on to counter, but Aziraphale didn’t react. _Little boy. He called me little boy. _

Aziraphale turned, finding Crowley close in front of him. “Crowley. We’ve tried this before. We both know how this will end, and I’m not going to lose you again.”

“Come sit on the sofa with me, Angel. It’s time we talk.” Crowley led the way, and Aziraphale followed, numb. The anxiety of Crowley’s comments was pairing very poorly with his anxiety from the storm. Very poorly indeed. He felt tears prickling at the edges of his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. _I can’t do this again._

Crowley guided Aziraphale down to the sofa, and sat beside him. In a rare gesture of openness, the demon pulled his tinted glasses off, and placed them in his shirt pocket. “Time for the feelings, Aziraphale. Are you okay?”

Thunder shook again, and Aziraphale cringed inwards. “I’m alright. Would be much better if the thunder would stop. Bit reminiscent isn’t it?” He gave an awkward smile, wrapping himself in a hug to keep from shaking.

“Hold still.” Crowley summoned a blanket from nowhere, and wrapped it around the blonde. “Is that better?”

“What’s going on, Crowley? Why you are here?”

“No messing about then. Good. Great. Probably for the best.”

“You’re stalling.”

They stared at each other. Aziraphale was shocked by how nervous Crowley looked. He had never known the demon to look nervous before. “Crowley?”

“Let me try again, Aziraphale. I know I fucked it up last time, and that was my fault. Okay it was a bit your fault too because you didn’t tell me I was fucking up until you erupted on me, but it was at least 90% my fault. I think after everything we’ve been through I’ve earned a second chance. “

Aziraphale stopped the deluge of diatribe with a raised hand. “If we do this, we have to do it my way. My way, and my pace.”

“Anything, Angel. I need this. I _need _to know you’re okay, and this is the only way I can think of to do it. I tried just spying on you, as a snake you know, sneaky, and it hasn’t helped. It’s all I’ve done all month. And anyways, I know you need this too because, well, spying.”

“I want that to be comforting. The concept of a snake in my flat for a month is making that rather hard.”

“What else should I have done?”

“Have you considered talking to me?”

There was silence. “Earned that one, didn’t I?”

“Rather, dear boy.”

The demon gave a rueful laugh. “Calling me _dear boy_ when I’m offering age play is throwing me off a bit.”

“But you _are _a dear boy, and that’s just how I talk.”

“So that’s staying then.” Crowley gave an eye roll, before settling into the couch deeper. “Tell me your limits then; I’ll listen this time.”

“I don’t want… anyone else, I suppose. Just me, and you, if you’re really sure you’re willing.”

“And I am.”

“And you are. But no one else. I don’t want to be out when I’m feeling small. I really, _really_ hated that. This isn’t something I want to… force on anyone? Does that make any sense at all?”

Crowley nodded. “ I really did fuck up. I’m so sorry, Aziraphale. If I could take it back I would.”

Aziraphale shook his head, brushing off the comment. “You’re right when you said I never said anything. I never should have left the flat; I was just so desperate for what you were offering. Regardless of anything, Crowley, I forgave you a long time ago.”

“I love you, Aziraphale.”

At that, the angel laughed. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself. “You’re a demon, Crowley. You aren’t capable of love. I appreciate the sentiment though.”

He was surprised to see Crowley look hurt. “I’m not actually a demon though, am I? _Fallen angel, _and all that? I remember love very clearly, and I’m well aware of my feelings. Sorry to disappoint you, but you’re the object of my affections. I love you. You’ll just have to deal with it”

“I suppose I’ll just have to.” Aziraphale smiled, thought for a bit, then tipped himself towards Crowley, pleased when the demon caught him in a hug. “I love you too, Crowley.”

“Now, little boy. We need to discuss what we’re going to do. All my pythonic observations have shown me is that you need a little more fun in your life.”

At that, Aziraphale sat up. He felt mildly offended. “I have plenty of fun!”

“You drink tea, and go to sleep.”

“That’s all I need!”

Crowley tilted his head, looking very carefully at Aziraphale. “Is that all you need? You don’t want to play, or cuddle, or be given a bath?”

“I… don’t know.”

“Come back here, little one.” Crowley opened his arms up, and waited patiently for Aziraphale to climb back into his embrace. “Let’s start with this: what do you think of when you’re little? What are your desires?”

“Usually, just more tea.”

“Think harder.”

Aziraphale squirmed. He made a decision. “I want my blanket, and I want my nightshirt.”

“Yes, I know you like those, very much. But we’re digging deeper here, Angel.”

“No, Crowley. I want them _now._ Could… Could I get changed?”

“Will you let me help?”

The smaller man nodded. Standing, he held his hand out to Crowley. Once the demon had slid his skinny hand into Aziraphale’s pudgy one, the angel guided his friend to his little bedroom.

Aziraphale sat on his bed, and pointed at his steamer trunk. After some deliberation, his thumb found its comfortable position in his mouth, pad pressed firmly against his palate. His free hand twisted into his soft, cream blanket and lifted a wad of it to rub against his cheek. Crowley looked almost impossibly fond.

“I’m glad you kept that you know?”

Aziraphale just nodded, watching Crowley through half lidded eyes. When the demon straightened up, he was holding Aziraphale’s beloved tartan nightshirt, and one of his terrycloth flat nappies. Aziraphale preferred his flannel nappies to the terrycloth, but that was okay. Crowley would learn. They had time.

“Can I put a nappy on you?” With Aziraphale’s nod, Crowley set the two garments on the bed, and moved back to the trunk to collect the rest. Pins, powder, pants, and the rest were placed on the bed.

“Lie back, little one.”

Having never put much thought into what it would feel like, having someone else change you, Aziraphale was surprised by how boneless he found himself. He was also surprised by Crowley stripping him manually. He had expected the demon to simply blink away his “Grown-Up” clothes, but instead Crowley was carefully and oh-so-gently removing each piece of clothing. He even took the time to fold each article before setting them on the bed.

Once fully nude, Crowley trailed finger tips down Aziraphale’s side. Since Adam had recorporated him, the angel had found himself more ticklish than he ever remembered. He wriggled away when Crowley’s cool fingers passed his tummy. He knew the moment that the demon locked his weakness away in his mind, and knew it would come to bite him later. For now, the demon just smiled softly down at him. “Would you like a bath tonight?”

Unsure how to answer, Aziraphale just blinked back, and gave a little shrug. Crowley nodded. “Perhaps another night, then.”

Nimble fingers folded the nappy beside him into the appropriate shape, and Aziraphale realised that, indeed, Crowley must have been spying on him. It had taken the angel many attempts to perfect the technique, but Crowley had it done in the blink of a moment. It was also proven when the demon took a second nappy and folded it the same way. Since August, Aziraphale had been wetting a little heavier, and experimenting with not changing immediately. Sometimes he needed the comfort that a wet nappy seemed to bring. All this equaled the need for thicker padding. Strong hands then lifted him from behind the knees, and Aziraphale found his bum being settled gently against the knobbly fabric.

Crowley was almost too gentle with the application of sweet-smelling pink lotion, and a little too aggressive with the shaking of talcum that filled the air with its signature cloying scent. The nappy front was flipped up, and Crowley pulled the first pin out of the soap Aziraphale kept them in to provide lubrication. It was slipped into the cotton, through the layers, and when yet another crash of thunder made Crowley’s hands jerk, it slipped directly into Aziraphale’s hip.

Yelping sharply, the angel wormed his way up the bed, and away from the offending weapon. Crowley looked horrified, and was quick to grab Aziraphale’s ankles and drag him back into place. “No! I’m so sorry, My Angel! I didn’t mean to!”

Aziraphale was so stunned at being called _his angel_ that he didn’t fight the tugging, and allowed Crowley to pull him into place. He barely noticed the way all pain miraculously disappeared as the demon bushed his thumb soothingly over the previously wounded hip. He sucked his thumb pensively as the demon pinned the nappy in place properly, this time keeping his own skinny fingers in place under the waistband as a barrier. _His angel? _

“Your angel?” It was muffled by thumb, but the message was clearly received by the demon. The redhead smiled as he tugged rubber pants up Aziraphale’s chubby legs, and over the nappy. Cold fingers ran along the leg holes, tucking stray fabric in place.

Crowley then pulled him into a sitting position, and slipped the nightshirt over his head. As he tugged it into place, the yellow-eyed demon smiled. He kissed Aziraphale in the centre of his forehead, smile cracking into a snaky grin when the angel went cross-eyed trying to follow the action. “My Angel forever. My boy. My little one.”

The angel fell forwards, face pressing into Crowley’s stomach; boney where Aziraphale was all chub, hard where Aziraphale was soft. They were puzzle pieces. Opposite angles and shapes that clicked into each other’s missing spots. “My Crowley.”

“Still not sold on daddy?”

Unseen, still pressed into belly, Aziraphale wrinkled his face. “No. Not Daddy. I don’t like that. You’re just… Just _My Crowley_. I mean, if that’s alright with you”

“Alright. It’s perfectly alright,” soothed Crowley, running fingers through Aziraphale’s hair with one hand, and scratching the angel’s back with the other. “Your Crowley then. Should your Crowley get you your bottle?”

“Please, don’t go.”

Thus, with a miracle, the tea was received. Aziraphale was pleased to find it in his favourite glass bottle. None of the polymer bottles he had tried over the decades had ever done the trick. He allowed Crowley to man-handle him into his bed, doubly pleased when the demon settled beside him, over the covers.

“We can’t avoid finishing the conversation forever, Aziraphale.” Crowley passed over the bottle. “Unless you want another screaming match in a Mothercare we should figure out what we’re doing here.”

Instead of drinking his tea, Aziraphale just held the bottle, letting it warm his hands. “This is what I want. Gentle. I didn’t like being embarrassed.”

“Okay. What else?”

“I really would like to be read to, if its not terribly too much of a bother.”

“I think we can make that happen. Although, I refuse to read _Winnie the Pooh_. That novel is an ouroboros of bland writing. But dream bigger, darling. If you could have anything, anything your little angel mind could come up with, what would it be?”

Aziraphale thought for a long time. Eventually he cuddled into Crowley’s side, and started in on his tea. It wouldn’t grow cold on him, it was expected to stay warm, but tea did help the angel think, and Crowley had made it with just the right amount of honey. Finally, he looked up at the redhead. “I would very much like a soft toy.”

There was a beat of silence. “Anything in the world and that’s it? Why haven’t you just bought your own soft toy?”

Aziraphale looked away, embarrassment flushing through himself. Why hadn’t he? “If it’s too much I understand.”

Backtracking was clear in Crowley's voice as he tucked Aziraphale a little closer. “It’s not too much, My Angel. I was just being silly. Little boys don’t buy their own toys. That’s a job for big bad demons. Now… What do we have here?” Crowley ran his fingers behind Aziraphale’s ear in the start of one of the angel’s favourite magic tricks. Instead of a coin, however, the demon pulled an impossibly, ineffably soft, plush rabbit from behind Aziraphale’s ear. “Why,” he crooned. “It’s our old friend, Harry the rabbit.”

When Crowley placed the white rabbit in Aziraphale’s hand, the angel was sure he had died and gone to heaven, but then again, he was much happier here then he had ever been in heaven. He keened softly, pressing the rabbit into his face, rubbing it against the patch of lip and nose where he had always been the most sensitive. “Harry because he’s hairy,” murmured the angel.

Crowley pressed Aziraphale for more requests, but the angel was too overwhelmed with Harry. Eventually giving up, Crowley had snapped himself into black silk pyjamas, and climbed into bed with Aziraphale. The blonde angel was feeling smaller, and softer than he ever had before; blurry around the edges. He cuddled up, and sucked his thumb again, fingers curled around one of Harry’s wonderfully long, white ears, the other hand twisted in his blanket and up against his cheek.

Long fingers were scratching at his scalp in a way that was too soothing to be real. Crowley was humming something, and had been on repeat for quite awhile. Whatever little bit of “Big” Aziraphale was clinging to the edges of his consciousness, was vaguely attempting to place the song in his memory. It was gentle and slow. While Crowley’s heart didn’t have to beat, the fact that the demon chose to make it do so was incredibly comforting. The _thump thump thump _of accompanying percussion adding to the lullabye.

Suddenly, it clicked. Aziraphale sat up in bed, thumb dislodging as he used both hands on Crowley's chest to push himself upright. “PLACIDO DOMINGO!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“That song! It’s Placido Domingo!”

“IT IS NOT!” Crowley sat up too, and looked horrified. “That is John Denver! I loved John Denver. Tried hard to get him. Thought I did with the whole chainsaw to the bed thing, but the bastard was too damn decent.”

The two men stared at each other for a bit, then Aziraphale lay back down. He pouted, and tugged at Crowley’s sleeve. “Can we just cuddle again, My Crowley. Please?”

Crowley huffed, but acquiesced to the request. “_Placido Domingo._ Italian bastard almost ruins it. See if I ever sing to you again.”

“Technically, dear boy, you were humming, not singing.”

“Hush, you.”

“But you were!”

“Shh. Yes, I was. Did more than enough singing in heaven. All those dreary _glo-o-o-rias. _You’ll just have to make do with humming.” Crowley started to rub Aziraphale’s back again once they laid down. After a bit, he was humming again.

“My Crowley?”

“My Angel?”

“What do you say it is? Love, I mean?”

“Go to sleep, Aziraphale.”

“Wont until you tell me.”

Crowley sighed, and pressed his lips into Aziraphale’s blonde hair. He sang softly, his unnecessary breath warm on Aziraphale’s scalp. “_If I should live forever, and all my dreams come true, my memories of love would be of you." _He gave a little huff. "It’s you, Angel. Love is you.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale processed the sentiment for a moment. He climbed on top of the demon, pressing himself as close as he could. “I rather think that I say that too. If I may borrow your words, love, for me, is you.”

“Go to sleep, My Angel.”

“Alright.”

Thumb. Rabbit. Blanket. Crowley.

The storm raged outside, but it didn’t seem scary anymore.

Sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it was so long coming. I tripped and fell into a depressive episode for funzies. Epilogue soon!


	6. Epilogue

Going Slow

Epilogue

They had made many compromises over the years. After one too many pin-related stabbings, Aziraphale had agreed to switch from traditional cloth nappies to the modern, Velcro ones. Even he had to admit that the endless varieties of pattern and colours was beyond charming.

Crowley had also convinced the angel to try different baby clothes, and Aziraphale now owned a complete wardrobe of babygrows, vests, rompers, and sleepsuits. These new additions were accepted with the knowledge that any and all sleeping was to be done in one of his treasured nightshirts, the collection of which had also grown insurmountably. He still chose the burgundy tartan most nights.

They hadn’t found much middle ground on toys, however. Crowley had bought his boy a full assortment of toys, going so far as taking Aziraphale to Hamleys and refusing to leave until the shorter man had chosen something. (_“Anything, My Angel. Please just pick a damn toy!”) _However, outside of Harry the rabbit, Aziraphale really only wanted to play with Crowley. As long as his red headed demon was beside him, the angel couldn’t care less about toys. They had plenty of fun on their own, what did they need toys for? If Crowley wanted to do anything, in Aziraphale’s mind, he should buy him _books. _Or, at the very least, read him his _Winnie the Pooh._

At the moment, Crowley was proving Aziraphale’s theory correct. They didn’t need anything to have fun. The angel was laying on the living room floor, his perfect blanket spread out underneath him. He had been napping, but now he was wide awake, and shrieking with laughter. A red-bellied snake was slithering everywhere, over his limbs, around his neck; flicking tongue and wiggling tail exploiting every ticklish spot the angel had. Aziraphale writhed on the floor, twisting and desperately trying to avoid his devious devil’s demonstrations. Just when he thought he couldn’t take another tickle, the snake shifted into his human form, rucked Aziraphale’s nightshirt up to his armpits, and pressed his face into the angel’s ample belly. The raspberry Crowley blew in the soft flash was loud, lewd, long, and wet.

The tickly sensation was too much for Aziraphale to bear, and the dam broke, both literally and metaphorically. As Crowley sat down beside him, cross-legged and smug, Aziraphale found himself panting with exertion, and lying in a very, very wet nappy. He continued to giggle as aftershocks shock of sensation ran through his body, nerves jangling.

“Oh look. You woke up.” Crowley raised a sardonic eyebrow, looking altogether too pleased with himself. Aziraphale grinned, and scrambled up into Crowley’s lap. “My Crowley,” he murmured, still feeling silly from the tickle fight.

“Soggy little Sproggy.”

Crowley kept up a gentle rhythm of conversation as Aziraphale snuggled up, even though the angel didn’t reply. That had taken the demon some getting used to. Aziraphale spent most of his day talking people into things, and talking people out of things. The last thing he wanted to do when little was talk at all.

He said _yes_ and _no;_ particularly _no._ He certainly said _book,_ and _blanket, _and _Harry. _Mostly he said _My Crowley_ and let the demon decipher his needs. It had taken months of their sessions for Crowley to finally understand_. “This is part of it for you, isn’t it? Not talking? You like letting me decided, huh, little boy?” _Aziraphale had only murmured a _yes_, and cuddled tighter. Since then, Crowley was more understanding, but no less persistent in his chattering.

A finger wiggling into his side alerted Aziraphale to the fact that Crowley had asked him a question, and he had unknowingly ignored it. He blinked blue eyes up at the man holding him. He sucked his thumb harder, little ticking noises sneaking past his lips.

Crowley rolled his eyes before repeating himself. “I have an important question, My Angel. Are you listening to me now?”

“Yes.” His thumb made his speaking fuzzy, but Crowley always understood.

“What do you want for our tea tonight? Should we go out, or stay in?”

This was a much bigger question than Aziraphale had been expecting so soon after his nap. Going out meant going to one of his, admittedly very many, favourite restaurants. Staying in meant staying little. If Aziraphale chose the restaurant well, going out may also mean Crowley eating something, as the demon did only so rarely.

Aziraphale lay his head on the demon’s bony shoulder. He needed to think very hard about this. “Harry?”

Crowley was obedient in passing the rabbit over. “My Crowley?” When Aziraphale had Crowley’s full attention, he pushed himself backwards with a hand on each bony shoulder to allow eye contact. He knew the demon wouldn’t let him fall. He drew as much Big Aziraphale to mind as he could. “If we go out for dinner, and I would like to go to Amaya, would you eat something too?” Aziraphale posed the question in all innocent tones.

He was deliberate in picking Amaya. Crowley only really ate food if it was very spicy, and Amaya fit the criteria of offering very spicy curry indeed, and boasting a Michelin star rating. Aziraphale liked it when Crowley ate.

“We can go to Amaya.”

“Do I have to be totally Big or can I be still a little bit Little?”

This too, was a compromise they had made. Crowley would have Aziraphale as little as he wanted to be, whenever he wanted to be. Aziraphale was too scared of people reactions to ever take the demon up in that desire. Only in the last year had Aziraphale felt brave enough to be “a little Little” anywhere but inside the walls of their flat. Crowley had obviously been thrilled, and wanted that to be their norm. Aziraphale was slower, experimenting over the course of many months.

“Be whatever you want, little boy. Whatever you need.”

“I need more cuddles, first.”

So, they cuddled. Crowley rocked them a bit, humming the way he liked to. They would go out and have their evening meal. They would come back and go to bed. Aziraphale decided there in the living room that he would like a bath that night, and he knew Crowley would agree.

They would have fights, because they always had fights. They would make up, because they always made up. There would be more compromises. There would be more conversations about their feelings, even though Crowley hated them. Right now, it didn’t matter.

“You need a fresh bum, My Angel.”

“Yes.”

They had each other, and together there was nothing they couldn’t face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with one weensy epilogue the story ends. Thanks again to my Schnuggs for the prompt and her willingness to hear me out as I wrestled with this. Now, tag, you're it!

**Author's Note:**

> All a gift for my McSchnuggles. We salty bitches, and just wanted a new plot in the fandom


End file.
